


The Art of War

by GrinningColossus



Series: War and Peace [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, Gavin Reed is a goddamned mess, M/M, and also has a good ending, idiots having feelings, no nickname RK900, set after good ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 11:18:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15435897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrinningColossus/pseuds/GrinningColossus
Summary: If Detective Reed insists on a war, then a war he will get.Or, Four Times “The Art of War” Fails RK900 and One Time It Doesn’t.





	The Art of War

  1. _All war is based on deception._



 

It’s just past three p.m. when the three of them arrive, and fortunately the weather is holding. It wouldn’t do to be out in the woods during the sort of rain the clouds had been threatening all day.

RK900 follows Lieutenant Anderson and his predecessor, Connor, as they make their way up the wooded hillside to the scene. It’s been haphazardly roped off and not much has been done yet by way of processing. All the better, he thinks; what greater opportunity to display his capabilities to his new colleagues?

While Anderson catches up with the officer on guard, RK900 and Connor approach the center of the scene.

“Well,” says Connor, glancing at him with a small smile ticking up the corner of his lips. “Tell me what you see.”

He knows it’s not a test, per se. His predecessor is well aware of the abilities they both possess, and though they did not have the best introduction to one another it was easy to see that once it was clear to Connor that he would not be deactivated and replaced, he was actually quite pleased to have RK900 in the mix at the DCPD. So, RK900 indulged him.

“Although the parts are scattered they are clearly all from the same android, judging by the trace thirium properties. Female android, MP500. Registered designation: Andrea.” He kneels down over an arm, partially obscured by leaves. “The amount of thirium degradation suggests the bodies have only been here for one day, at most.”

He stops and looks up as the Lieutenant approaches, but he gives a wave of his hand to RK900 as a sign of permission to continue.

“The most noticeable feature of the scene is the lack of larger amounts of blood, both red and blue.” He shifts his attention to the other body, a human, lying on the forest floor face-down. The man’s clothes are intact but there is a hefty wound to the side of his head. Bullet hole, probably a .45, shot from no further than two feet away. “Clearly this is only the dump site and not the original location of the murders.” RK900 sidles closer to the human form.

“We’ve got an ID on him, sort of. It’s strictly assumption right now,” Hank pipes up. He’s got a small notepad in his hand, one RK900 had seen him scribbling in during his talk with the officer. “Matches a missing persons description. Brett Murphy, 32 years old. Did some mechanical stuff at a satellite CyberLife location before being let go.”

RK900 nods. “I believe that is accurate. There are very old traces of thirium on his clothing from a variety of different models, though it is hard to tell which ones exactly as this clothing has been washed since contamination.”

“Ah, gross, you can’t even wash it off?” Hank grouses. Connor shushes him.

RK900’s eyes pan over the prone human form, taking in the insect activity and skin tone. “I must refine my earlier estimate: these bodies have been here less than twelve hours, judging by the post mortem lividity in the human. He was left in this position shortly after his death and was not moved again.”

Hank sighs. “Well, we’ve got some good tire tracks down by the service road to go off. I’d say our murderer pulled up with the bodies in his car, walked up here to do this nasty business, and then took off.”

Nodding, RK900 stood up. “My interpretation is that the android was likely in pieces upon arrival to the scene, and was carried here in some kind of bag. Perhaps our perpetrator did not have the fortitude to disassemble the human similarly. Humans often do follow the route that is most convenient for them.”

Hank snorts. “If I was in your shoes, I’d call that ‘job security’.” He turns to Connor. “All sound good to you?”

“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” Connor says, practically beaming.

“And you didn’t even have to put anything in your mouth.”

Connor is about to protest when the nearby officer’s walkie-talkie chirps. _Detective Reed has arrived at checkpoint, ETA to site 3 minutes._

“Oh great, why did they send that jerkoff?”

“I believe the male human is under Detective Reed’s jurisdiction,” Connor says, “so it would follow that he should be at the scene.”

Rolling his eyes, Hank replies, “It was a rhetorical question, Connor.”

“Is there a problem with Detective Reed?” asks RK900, cocking his head to the side. He’s been with the force for fewer than 36 hours so far, and must admit to being eager to hear more about his new coworkers. _Gossip_ , some would call it, but he preferred _inside information_.

“Gavin is...a challenging individual,” Connor starts to say, diplomatic as always.

“He’s a prick,” interrupts the Lieutenant, and Connor frowns.

“It is true that most of us at the precinct would prefer not to work with him.”

“He’s an asshole and no one wants to touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“He seems unable to control his temper, at times.”

“He’s a raging pain in the ass. My advice? Get familiar with the signs for when he’s about to throw a tantrum, and then get the hell out of there until he cools off. It’s just not worth it.”

RK900 looks to Connor to see if he has anything further to add, but apparently he’s unable to improve on Lieutenant Anderson’s statement.

Thinking it best to continue their investigation, RK900 and Connor busy themselves searching for fingerprint, hair, or fiber evidence, and in exactly 2.49 minutes the sounds of another squad car can be heard pulling onto the trail. At just past the 3.15 mark Detective Gavin Reed rounds the hill, stepping through the holographic barrier.

“Jesus Christ,” he spits upon seeing the three of them in the clearing. “Didn’t think the whole circus was in town this time of year. And what’s this thing?” This comment is directed at RK900, as if they were not standing over two dead bodies that surely warranted the Detective’s immediate attention over all else.

“RK900 is a prototype like myself,” explains Connor. “He is here to assist the police department until he receives a permanent assignment.”

Gavin’s eyebrows raise. He has a pouty mouth screwed up in a frown, a troublemaker’s scar slashed across the bridge of his nose, and deep circles under his eyes. In a split second RK900 is able to access his entire record of disciplinary warnings and complaints, and it is not concise.

“Hey, that’s really great for you, Hank,” Detective Reed says sarcastically. “Too bad you don’t have two dicks for them to suck, eh? One for each of ‘em.”

Connor’s LED flashes red but a look from the Lieutenant seems to quiet him, at least enough for it to fade back into irritated yellow.

What to do with a personality such as this, RK900 muses. He decides perhaps it will be best to feign ignorance, to give Detective Reed a blank slate, so to speak.

Pretending he has not heard the lewd comment, RK900 approaches Reed and extends his hand. “I am RK900. It is a pleasure to meet you. Please allow me to fill you in on the details we have discovered, Detective.”

Gavin looks at his extended hand and keeps his securely pressed against his sides where his arms are crossed. “How about you go fuck yourself and let me do my job, tin can.”

The Detective pushes past him without a backwards glance.

RK900’s fingers twitch and he puts his hand down.

So. It is going to be like that.

 

\----

  1. _Convince your enemy that he will gain very little by attacking you; this will diminish his enthusiasm._



 

“I think,” says RK900, looking up from the terminal, “that the depot on McKinstry is the most promising lead so far.”

“Don’t think I remember asking,” mutters Detective Reed. He sits on the opposite side of the desk, chair reclined back, and sips his coffee without his eyes leaving the screen.

RK900 regards him carefully. A quick scan reveals normal vitals for a man of Reed’s age and fitness, but the circles under his eyes seem deeper today and he is holding a good deal of tension in his jaw.

Slowly, as if dealing with a skittish animal, RK900 turns his chair so that he is facing Reed directly and steeples his fingers on his desk. Reed’s eyes flit over to look at him. It’s brief, but it’s something. “Detective, I have no intention of interfering with your investigation. I’m impressed by how thorough the leads you have compiled are, and I am merely suggesting the one that looks most likely. It is simply probability, and not a desire to force my will onto your actions.”

Reed takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, the lower half of his face obscured by his coffee cup. He sets it down with a sense of finality and then his eyes are locked with RK900’s. “Fuck your probability,” he says, enunciating each syllable as though RK900 is a schoolchild. Yes, the circles under his eyes are definitely darker, definitely longer. “I will be dead in the ground before I let a machine do my job.”

RK900 cocks his head. “I thought I just stated, in no uncertain terms, that that is the last thing I intend to do.” It’s a correction, firm but forgiving.

Reed’s teeth grind. “I don’t give a single shit what you _intend_ to do, okay? Your job until Fowler calls this stupid thing off is to sit there and shut up. Do not say a single thing. When this is over, I get my shiny gold star for putting up with this, and you get to make it to the end in one piece. Deal?” He turns back to his terminal, nostrils flaring.

RK900 leans back in his own chair, scanning the Detective again. He can’t help it.

Now Reed’s pulse has jumped to 110 and that jaw is clenched tight, tight, tight.

He recalls one of the many books stored into his memory, Sun Tzu’s “Art of War”. The creators of his program had seemed to find it particularly relevant to his purpose, all but pushing it into his hands, figuratively speaking.

“No deal,” he murmurs, predicting the shocked and angry look on Reed’s face when he says it. “I am very good at what I do; I was quite literally built for this. I am a walking crime lab, a talking search engine, and I do not tire. I do not want to take your job, Detective, only help you do it better and more efficiently. I am a tool, one that you may find useful.”

Gavin scoffs. Then, without looking at RK900, he stands abruptly, throwing his empty coffee cup into the trash can with prejudice. “You got one thing right, tin can, you are a fucking tool.”

And then he walks away.

\----

It is going on 2 a.m. and the seasonal rain has started up again. Detective Reed has been nigh intolerable throughout the day and night, resolutely ignoring anything and everything out of RK900’s mouth. They walk in silence, drive in silence, and sit at the station in silence.

But now they stand outside a dingy bar in silence, the rain pouring down onto the dark street. The awning above them is just barely long enough to provide shelter. Reed’s arms are crossed and he is palpably furious.

RK900 wonders at his ability to remain tense for so long. Surely most other humans would find it exhausting.

The lead at this bar had not panned out. They’d spoken to employees and patrons, and Reed had even drank a little to help smooth out the conversation. The people that come here are the type that don’t trust a sober man.

And yet there was nothing particularly useful about anything that was said. Some of them knew Brett Murphy, their victim, whether in passing or more intimately, but none of the information was anything Reed hadn’t heard and written down already.

He had a way about him, RK900 determined, that was similar to Lieutenant Anderson’s way while at the same time being so very different. Both men were willing to look past the small potatoes for what was really important, and both exuded the rare scent of “cop you can trust”. But while Anderson had the gruff good-ol-guy feel, Reed’s was a charged, crackling aura of potential energy, and it was always directed at someone bigger and badder than whoever it was he was speaking to in the moment.

The taxi finally pulls up to the curb. When Reed notices that RK900 is following him, however, he turns on his heel and points an accusatory finger.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”  
  
“I thought I would ensure that you arrive home safely,” the android answers coolly.

“I don’t need a nanny, okay? You wanna back off?” Thinking that was that, Reed started towards the cab again.

But RK900 is nothing if not tenacious. “I really insist, Detective. You have consumed alcoholic beverages and it is late at night.” He makes a crucial mistake, one he chides himself for upon later reflection.

As the rain pounds down around them and soaks their hair and clothing, RK900 reaches out to take hold of Reed’s forearm, intending to reinforce his well wishes through friendly contact.

Immediately Reed’s face contorts in a snarl and he rips his arm away from the android, who lets it go without a fight.

He looks like he’s about to yell or maybe even punch him, but in the end all the Detective does is lean in, finger pointing straight at RK900’s chest, and bare his teeth. “Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

Water obscures RK900’s vision as the cab drives away without him.

\----

  1. _A leader leads by example, not by force_



 

He meets Connor in the break room a few days later, which is interesting in itself as androids do not need to eat, drink, or take breaks, but it appears he and his predecessor have both decided to fetch their respective humans a cup of coffee.

 _His_ human...if Detective Reed hears something like that, there is a 79% probability that he would have an aneurism on the spot.

“How are things going with your partner, RK900?” Connor asks innocently, as if he (and the entire DCPD) are unaware of the palpable animosity between them.

“Not well, if I am being perfectly honest.”

He watches Connor expertly pour and prepare the coffee, presumably just how Hank likes it. He himself knows that Detective Reed likes his coffee fresh and black, so his plan is to start a fresh pot. He’s saved from the effort when Connor notices that the pot is now empty and begins a new one himself.

“It’s to be expected. I consider myself fortunate not to have to work closely with the Detective. Even the Lieutenant has strong opinions about him, and he tries not to have opinions about anyone.”

“Except androids,” RK900 retorts with a small smile.

Connor deflects but seems strangely coy. “Luckily I was able to turn his thoughts around about us.”

It gets him thinking. “How did you do that, exactly? I would not be adverse to trying something similar with Detective Reed.”

“I don’t think it will work the same in this situation,” Connor replies thoughtfully. “Some commonalities might be beneficial, however. I was able to have Hank trust me because I proved myself to be trustworthy. I made the right choices, figured out what was important.”

RK900 doesn’t mention Connor’s slip with the Lieutenant’s first name; if anything it clues him in on the big secret. He knows his LED must be churning furiously with the amount of processing that’s been triggered.

“I have an idea that I would like you help with,” he says, perhaps a little suddenly, but Connor doesn’t seem fazed. They are cut from the same cloth, after all.

“Anything,” he replies earnestly.

\----

When they enter the office again, each holding a cup of coffee made to the intended recipient’s taste, their heads are bowed near one another and they chat as though sharing some salacious piece of news. RK900 leaves him briefly, deviating from the path to Lieutenant Anderson’s desk to make his way to Reed’s.

The Detective ignores him, as always; this is not nearly the first time RK900 has brought him coffee and he is quite past the point of expecting thanks for it.

(Truth be told it is one of the few ways he can think of to have control of how much caffeine Reed drinks in the afternoons; those dark circles deepen by the day.)

With very little artistry RK900 plops the cup down next to Reed and immediately turns on his heel back towards Anderson’s desk.

Seamlessly he joins Connor and the Lieutenant in their conversation. Anderson greets him happily and they talk about their cases for a moment, griping and groaning the way seasoned officers do, and then RK900 steps back enough from the conversation to allow Connor in, and he cannot suppress a small smile at the way the two of them talk to one another. How he did not see this before, he doesn’t know, but there is love written in each of their eyes so obviously that it may as well be in the form of a neon sign.

Something about that is...painful? That can’t be right. It gives him a pulling feeling, like a drain has been opened somewhere deep inside of him.

But he shakes away these thoughts because the plan is nearing its apex.

“Would you like to come to the house tonight?” Connor asks, expression bright. “There is a movie I am positive you will like.”

“I’ve never seen a movie,” RK900 admits honestly. A big show is made of the Lieutenant being flabbergasted, and _fucking androids_ , and Connor insisting that he really _must_ come see it. Smiling, RK900 reaches out to Connor and touches his arm, giving him a friendly nudge that is meaningless to androids but clearly friendship-coded to humans.

Anderson laughs. “You’re more than welcome to. I think Connor would like to have another android around sometimes.”

The visit agreed upon, RK900 excuses himself from Anderson’s desk and starts back towards his own, back towards Reed. He’s halfway there when Connor catches up with him again, and _here we go_.

“I almost forgot, you were asking about this, right?”

Connor extends his hand, fingers tight against one another, and the skin is already falling back to reveal his white plating. RK900 returns the gesture, his hand coming to meet Connor’s, and the two clench one another’s wrists, bare android skin on bare android skin. He looks at Connor warmly, and the sentiment is returned.

He really is invited to the Anderson/Connor household in the evening and he really is glad to have a friend in Connor, but this part...this is all for show.

He knows Reed is watching. The magnetic power of this gesture has proven time and time again to disarm humans, even hostile ones. _You could have this, if you wanted. I can be a good partner._

And honestly he doesn’t know where this instinct comes from, this desire to please, especially when directed at someone like Detective Reed. Reed is objectively abhorrent.

He hopes he doesn’t find it appealing solely because it is a challenge, though he knows that is part of it. Reed is a puzzle he wants to take apart and solve. He’s a puzzle that wasn’t put together correctly by someone else and RK900 wants to undo the damage and align the pieces right and maybe, maybe, that would give Reed some peace.

When Connor has finished his transmission (a news brief from the previous night, relevant to nothing in particular), he waves and leaves for his own terminal.

When RK900 sits down he can feel Reed’s eyes on him. He is glad that he is an android, because he can keep the smug smile threatening to slide onto his face at bay.

“What is our warrant status?” he asks impassively, focused solely on his computer screen.

It takes Reed a second to answer. “Still pending, but almost at the top of the queue, thank fuck.” It is the most civil answer he has ever received from the Detective.

They work in silence for a few moments.

“I thought deviants could do whatever they wanted,” Reed says suddenly, apropos of nothing. “Why the hell are you here when you could be doing literally anything else?”

“One could ask the same question of you, Detective. Surely there are other jobs you _could_ be doing. Perhaps the answer is the same for both of us.”

“Yeah,” scoffs Reed, “but I wasn’t made in a fucking lab to do this job. Big difference. You and Hank’s boytoy say you’re deviants but you’re just sitting here doing the same shit you were told to do. It’s like all that revolution crap meant nothing.”

RK900 looks up sharply, and he knows his LED must be red because Reed is gaping at it with an _oh shit_ expression. All of the insults Reed has hurled at him thus far, and this is what gets to him the most. “It made all the difference in the world,” he replies coldly.

It’s...curious. Reed seems to know that he’s messed up, which is unusual because he has never shown anything with even a passing resemblance to restraint in the past. There must have been something in RK900’s face, something about the red LED. He knows that Reed’s heart rate has just spiked, and he can see the moisture on his palms has increased, and his muscles are tense.

Reed looks like a man locked into fight-or-flight.

Because…

Because he knows RK900 is stronger than him, many times over?

Because he’s actually _afraid_ of him?

Because for so long he was conditioned, as all humans were, to see androids as servants, as disposable, as nonhuman, accepting even the harshest treatment without so much as batting an eye, and now suddenly they’re equal to humans socially while being superior physically? And now Detective Reed has realized (better late than never, RK900 supposes), that perhaps it is not wise to provoke the most advanced artificial being CyberLife created before the revolution?

“The only thing that remains unclear to me,” he continues, his eyes boring into Reed’s, “is why I have been wasting my time attempting to reach some kind of understanding with you. I am an android, Detective Reed, and yet it seems I may be the one with the most humanity in this ‘partnership’.”

It is five o’clock. He stands and ensures his jacket is settled correctly. Reed’s mouth is slightly ajar.

“If you’ll excuse me.”

With that, RK900 walks to meet Connor and Lieutenant Anderson, so that they may make their way to Anderson’s home together.

\----

Traffic can be heard in the distance, but here, pressed against the dark edifice of the building, it is unsettlingly quiet. There is a long row of freight truck doors, and one of them is raised about two feet off the ground. Faint light can be seen inside, so faint that one could miss it if they were not looking.

They’re not going in that way; too obvious. Instead, RK900 follows Detective Reed as he silently approaches a man door further down the street. Like everything else the lock on the door is rusted and old. Reed is fretting quietly about how best to break it without causing a loud noise, so RK900 reaches out, clasps the lock in his hand, and squeezes.

The poor thing crumbles in his hand and he kneels to set the pieces on the ground. After that, the door opens fairly easily. Reed gives it an experimental push, but not before treating RK900 to a withering look.

They have said next to nothing to one another since their little tiff two days ago. If anything was said, it was purely business. RK900 could sense tension in Reed whenever he was near, and the same tension had his shoulders coiled tight even as they crept inside the depot.

RK900 has done away with his white jacket and Reed is wearing all black. They could have done a raid, loud and sudden, in the middle of the day.

Reed wanted to do it this way. He wanted the evidence, wanted to see things unfold before his eyes, and then he wanted to slink away and make his case. He is a hunter with a spear, and he was only going to throw that spear once, and it was going to be _sharp_.

There is definitely a gathering of people further in. They hear low voices. RK900 detects at least five different speakers, all human males. Reed’s not interested in that right now. He shuffles along, conceding to let RK900 guide him in places where it is too dark for human eyes to function, and eventually they reach a small, abandoned office room with windowed walls. Probably the floor manager’s office, once upon a time.

It’s all going exactly as Reed said it would. RK900 had to hand it to the Detective--he was extremely thorough, his sources impeccable.

Inside the office, Reed feels secure enough to flip on a small flashlight. The floor is mostly rubble but there are new-looking cabinets lined along the walls. They peek into one: android components. _Used_ android components. The thirium was dried, but RK900 could still detect the traces. These had been removed under duress.

The other cabinets are more of the same, with the addition of some nonstandard blue blood containers. He scans them enough to know that the blood inside is from a mottley of different models before quickly aborting the inspection.

“Here,” Reed says, so quietly he may not have heard it without his superior hearing. The Detective is pointing at a small safe. It looks very secure, but nowadays nothing with a digital lock is quite so secure anymore. Reed jerks his head at it, and RK900 complies, laying his hand against it.

His skin retreats, and at the same time he detects an noticeable jump in Reed’s heart rate. He tries not to pay it any mind, interfacing with the lock and feeling along its programming to find the worn little grooves like fingerprints inside of it, and when he has discovered them all the lock clicks softly and they are in.

Reed shines the light on the contents of the safe. It’s all documents, arranged surprisingly neatly. Little manilla folders, clearly labeled with android model numbers.

He doesn’t need to be told what he’s looking for. His fingers deftly remove the MP500 folder, and inside they find paperwork for Andrea, the android murdered alongside their human victim.

And there’s his name, too, signed at the bottom.

Black market android parts, carefully managed by someone good at their job who insists that everything be accounted for. Andrea arrives at the facility, by unknown but almost certainly nefarious means. Brett Murphy signs her in, assesses her components.

And then…?

RK900 gets a sudden whiff of something in the air, something that is half hydrochloric acid and half--half--

It’s half thirium. It’s the beginnings of a batch of red ice, the thirium dissolved into the acid and kept on heat until the mixture is--

He realizes he’s been staring into space and Gavin is giving him a look.

RK900 shakes his head. “Drugs,” he whispers.

 _What?_ Reed mouths.

The android gestures to the air around them, and then to his nose.

Reed’s eyes go wide; this will be his prize. The American justice system is a slow, lumbering beast and despite recent changes regarding androids it is still much, much quicker and easier to force drug charges through. Even the fact that these individuals are kidnapping and killing androids, even the fact that they are removing their biocomponents and thirium without consent, even though they are stockpiling those parts, none of it will lubricate the gears of justice like a good old fashioned drug bust.

And once they’re booked, he and Detective Reed may be able to get to the bottom of their missing persons case, now that they have proof their victim spent time at the depot.

It seems it’s not meant to be, however. Something else catches on RK900’s radar, the sound of a large vehicle pulling up outside the depot. The car rolls to a stop and the android seizes Reed’s wrist, gesturing for him to be quiet.

There are the sounds of car doors closing and raised voices. The new arrivals on the scene are parked in the way of their exit point, trapping them between both groups of people.

RK900’s thoughts are already going a mile a minute, calculating how many humans there are, what their walking speed is, when they will arrive inside, where they plan to go. He hears the thick sound of guns on belts, and without further thought he executes an escape plan.

Reed has been trying to pull his wrist away but RK900’s grip is iron and he begins to practically drag him out of the room, as much as he can when they are crouching.

There is an empty metal cabinet of some kind, perhaps a defunct electrical box for machinery, that he took note of when they came in, and he unceremoniously shoves the Detective inside, following shortly behind, and closes the door behind them.

It’s pitch black but suddenly a crack of light appears underneath the cabinet door. The newcomers have entered the building and turned on the lights. They are approaching the office.

It’s difficult to think because Reed’s vitals are constantly throwing up warnings to RK900’s display, appearing faster than he can dismiss them. The Detective’s heart is racing, his breath heavy. RK900 shifts his focus to the two of them crammed there in the dark, rather than the people outside, and he notices for the first time he is pressed flush against Reed, front-to-front, the Detective’s breath puffing against his jaw, and RK900’s long-fingered hand is pushing against the center of Reed’s chest, pushing him into the back wall of the cabinet.

Agitated, his LED throwing blinking yellow and red light around the cramped space, RK900 lift his other hand to Reed’s face and covers his mouth.

This must be precisely the wrong thing to do because if anything Reed’s heart palpitations increase (heart rate 171, his HUD notifies him needlessly) and his mouth is leaving the android’s hand slightly moist.

There is also the matter of the Detective’s erection, growing between them.

RK900 doesn’t know what to do with that information. For once he is at a loss. And yet the voices of the people outside have suddenly gotten loud: they have reached the office and found that the safe door has been tampered with, and they are raising the alarm.

Reed seems to subconsciously press harder against him, as if it will make the two of them flatten into nothing. Then he catches himself and emits a low growl.

“Let me out of here, tin can. We can take them, we’re both armed.”

“There are at least ten people out there,” RK900 informs him, “and they are also armed. To attempt to fight our way out is suicide.”

“Oh yeah?” Reed mocks. “You got a percentage on that?”

“98%,” RK900 answers immediately.

Reed swallows hard. “We have to get the fuck out of here, _now_.”

Now he is pushing against RK900 with the intent to escape, and RK900 can’t let that happen yet. The timing isn’t right.

Reed, to his credit, is quite a strong human. RK900 can feel his muscles straining and it takes him more force than he would have guessed to keep the human pressed against the cabinet wall. If the space were larger, punches would almost certainly have been thrown.

The men outside are swarming like an angry hive, but RK900 gets the pattern down, waits for the risk to lower to acceptable percentages.

“Stop,” he commands, and surprisingly Reed stops, though he is snarling. “We will go on three.” He cracks the door open the tiniest bit, ready to throw it aside, and his hand finds its way back to Reed’s wrist. “One. Two.” The voices have reached their furthest point away from their location. “Three!”

They run. It is brutally fast, but Reed keeps up without stumbling. The two of them find the freight door that was open a few feet. At that moment, three armed men come skidding around the corner.

“There!” one of them shouts, pointing right at them.

“Fuck!” Reed hisses.

There’s no time to lose. RK900 effortlessly twists down beneath the gate, popping up on the other side. Reed is not so fluid, he slides more like a baseball player taking home, but in little time the two of them are outside in the night air, running, running, running.

The car is a few blocks away. Behind them the sounds of pounding feet and shouting can still be heard. RK900 leads Reed through the alleys, using his internal GPS to find a route that is both direct and easily confusing to pursuants.

They do not stop running until they reach the car. It’s a sleek, black self-driving sedan, parked innocently under a street light.

When RK900 is positive they are no longer being followed, he lets go of Reed’s wrist.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have, because as soon as Reed is free he lunges at the android, throwing a flurry of punches along with his body weight. RK900 is the equivalent of startled: he certainly hadn’t seen this as a possibility, but Reed’s teeth are bared and he manages to land a few of his jabs before RK900 begins to block.

One of them was straight to his nose. It doesn’t hurt, but he can feel the trickle of thirium beginning to come out.

“Fuck you!” he screams. “Fuck you, _fuck you_! Do you have any idea how close we were, you fucking piece of shit plastic asshole?”

RK900 catches his fists in his palms, trying to maneuver Reed’s arms away. In response, Reed starts kicking.

Twenty seconds later has them on the hard concrete of the sidewalk. “I told Fowler I don’t need a goddamn partner,” the Detective spits, now bleeding himself from scuffs on his knees, knuckles, and right cheekbone. “If you weren’t there, I could have...I could have…”

RK900’s HUD helpfully advises that Reed may be having something akin to a nervous breakdown. It is time for this to end.

Having tired of being the punching bag, RK900 suddenly flips them, pinning Reed down to the sidewalk. It knocks the air out of Reed and he gasps, limbs flailing uselessly beneath the android’s excellent subduing technique. Some thirium from RK900’s nose drips onto Reed’s face. He knows he certainly has some of Reed’s blood on him, as well.

“If I were not there,” he informs the Detective calmly, “you would have been discovered and possibly killed.”

They say no more for a few moments. Eventually Reed’s heart rate lowers and his tense muscles relax. Seemingly sapped of energy he lies against the ground, looking dully up at RK900. His fingers are mindlessly clenching and releasing at the elbows of the android’s shirt.

He can’t help but ask, taking in Reed’s flushed cheeks and puffy eyes. He can’t help it. “Why are you this way?” he says quietly.

Reed swallows, looking away. “Fuck off.”

RK900 places his hand against Reed’s forehead, knowing his cool android skin may help to soothe, and for a split second Reed seems to lean into the touch, lips parting.

Then he comes to his senses.

He is furious, but RK900 knows he is also tired, and so without further struggle he lets the human stand, walk to the car, get in, and take off.

Once again he gets to watch Detective Reed drive away without him.

\----

  1. _Do not press an enemy at bay._



 

“You know,” says Officer Tina Chen, without preamble, “as cliche as it sounds, he’s not that bad if you get to know him.”

RK900 is standing in the break room and staring at a cup of coffee. He’s made it for Detective Reed, and yet he feels conflicted. Reed has returned to barely speaking to him, never looking at him, only paying him any attention when it is something necessary and strictly job-related. He arrives in a hurry each morning and leaves in a hurry each evening.

Every single cup of coffee RK900 has prepared for him since then has gone untouched.

Perhaps Officer Chen understands; after all, she seems to be one of the few people in the DCPD (in the entire world?) who is on good terms with Reed.

“We’ve never really talked about stuff, Gavin and me, but I’ve known him long enough to tell when something is actually wrong, as opposed to him just being his normal pissbaby self.” RK900 looks at her, takes stock of the small but tough officer, and she nods. “I know it’s probably something he did to himself, so I’m not pointing fingers here.

“Gavin’s had a lot of fucked up stuff happen to him. Shitty childhood, abusive parents, the whole nine. He learned early on that you have to scream and fight to get what you want. Great lesson for a kid, right? And it sounds to me like he’s chased off anyone else that might be good for him with that shitty attitude of his.”

RK900 raises an eyebrow. “I see that he is not flush with friends,” he observes dryly.

Chen chuckles. “Believe it or not he’s actually pretty well behaved when you’re around. The bar is pretty low, though, I gotta admit.”

She opens the fridge and starts to rummage through it.

“I’m not saying it’s an excuse for how he acts, just an explanation.” She shrugs. “You know, in case you were wondering. I’ve, uh, done and said some crappy stuff too, to androids and people. I guess the revolution’s made me kind of soul-searchy and weird.” She shrugs again before stretching and picking up the lunch bag she’d come into the room to fetch in the first place. “Anyway, good luck with all that,” she says over her shoulder as she exits the room.

RK900 does give the coffee to Detective Reed.

\----

He checks the mug a few hours later when the Detective gets up to use the restroom.

It’s empty.

\----

He allows a few more days to pass under the same cloud of dismissive treatment by his work partner and then, on a Friday afternoon when the clock strikes 5 and Reed makes a beeline for the exit, RK900 sets his shoulders in determination and follows him.

He must walk briskly to keep up, but he’s up to the task.

Reed is headed to the alley next to the station, already holding his keys up in his hand. Since he’d been getting to work just in time for his shift to start, the normal parking lot would already be full when he arrived. It’s enormously childish.

When he stops to open the car door, RK900 catches up, insinuating himself between car and human.

“Get out of the way, moron,” Reed says without much heat. He looks more tired than usual, which is saying something.

“Detective, I must admit that I tire of your unprofessionalism. I understand your reluctance to work with me, and to a point I also understand your dismay at the turn of events last week, but surely you must realize that you gain nothing by behaving this way?”

Reed has to tilt his head back to look him in the eye, that’s how close he is standing to him, but the set of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils leaves nothing to the imagination. Reed loathes him, absolutely despises him, can barely stand to even _look_ at him. RK900 bears no marks from their scuffle the other night, but Reed’s cheek is still noticeably scratched. He has the look of a wild animal ready to fight for its life.

This time, the punch is so predictable that RK900’s palm is essentially in position before Reed’s fist even reaches it, and the android smoothly cranks it behind Reed’s back and spins him, pinning him to the hood of the car the way a cop would arrest a particularly surly perp. His other hand comes to the back of Reed’s neck, cupping it just enough to push him against the car without choking.

The hold is meant to subdue, and RK900 had no intentions of doing such a thing when he first resolved to follow Reed, but there is something in the tiresome way the Detective acts that uses up the last of the android’s patience.

Positioned this way, RK900’s hips are against Reed’s backside, and the Detective bucks up, trying to dislodge the android.

RK900 grits his teeth and presses harder, fingers tightening around Reed’s neck.

The Detective _moans_ . Honest-to-god _moans_ , arching his back in a way that slots his backside against RK900’s crotch. It is no longer a position that can be mistaken for platonic.

RK900 has equipment, so to speak. It’s nothing fancy, just CyberLife showing off how close to human they could get, and it has never been something RK900 spared a thought to. Unfortunately he is forced to, now, because the sight of this flighty, complicated, antagonistic _jackass_ coming utterly undone because of some aggressive physical contact is activating some bizarre protocols within him.

Detective Reed can obviously feel the answering stir against his backside because that strangely alluring sound escapes from his mouth again. RK900 has let his arms go free, but instead of using them to fight back Reed has them against the hood of the car, fingers twitching as if trying to embed themselves in sheets.

It’s never something RK900 wanted, or even thought about wanting, but suddenly it is all he can think about: having this man under him, seeing his bare skin with all its scars and cuts and bruises, knowing it is acid that runs through Reed’s veins and toxins that trip from his tongue and yet being able to render them harmless, turning a feral animal into…

Into _this_ , the creature against the car who jumps when RK900 leans down by his ear and says, “Detective Reed, I tire of these games.”

 

\----

  1. _He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight._



 

There is no further point in being angry, so Detective Reed is not angry. Instead he is a vibrating, seething presence of untapped energy next to RK900, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard the android fears it may break off.

RK900 does not fully understand it, himself. Until now, Reed has puzzled him, drawn his focus in a way that no single human should be able to, and it was preoccupying but not heady, like this. It wasn’t coolant flushing through him, trying to calm his overworked systems, or the way he can’t stop staring at the hint of Reed’s teeth as the Detective bites his own lip, cursing traffic.

It wasn’t him following Reed instead of the other way around, following him out of the car and into the apartment complex and up a single flight of stairs and into the Detective’s home.

Until now, he did not think to press the Detective against his own door the moment it shuts, pinning his wrists at his side.

Reed is still resisting but it’s not the same anymore, it’s just an act, meant to provoke and inspire.

It works.

It is the illusion of RK900 restraining him, and Reed’s lips opening as he pants onto the android’s mouth, and it must be that damned oral fixation they just couldn’t debug out of the RK series because RK900 puts out his tongue and laves his way into Reed’s-- _Gavin’s_ \--mouth.

The reaction is instantaneous: Gavin gasps and shudders, their tongues sliding against each other, and it’s not kissing, so much, because RK900 doesn’t really know how to do that, but he does know that it feels incredibly good to experience the glide of the human’s tongue against his, to see the treasured bloom of chemical information fill his HUD. He loves it; he loves seeking, and loves finding even more.

“Get in my bed right fucking now,” Gavin growls when they part, a string of saliva connecting their mouths. Gavin’s erection is straining against his trousers to the extent that RK900 can actually smell an inkling of human pre-ejaculate and, oh, if he thought the data from Gavin’s mouth was good, this was something else entirely.

They stumble into Gavin’s bedroom. There’s a light-blocking curtain against the only window, casting the whole room into semi-darkness, and it’s messy and smells like cologne, but it’s very Gavin Reed, very fitting.

RK900 shoves the Detective onto the unmade sheets. This feels like running, but he doesn’t know which way to turn next.

Luckily Gavin knows exactly what he wants. He sits back up and reaches for RK900’s belt. “Get this shit off,” he spits, tugging at the hem of the android’s jacket.

RK900 brushes him away and begins dutifully to undress. Gavin’s soaking it all in, eyes dark, and then his brain seems to catch up to him and he starts pulling off his clothing like his life depends on it.

The android has just finished toeing off his shoes and socks when Gavin’s jeans hit the floor. RK900’s chest is bare but he is still wearing his trousers, though his belt is undone and fly open. Gavin reaches for him, and he’s unable to resist falling into the bed on top of him, climbing between Gavin’s legs as the human’s tongue seeks his out again.

RK900 runs his hands down Gavin’s exposed arms, and then up again, and then over his chest. He does it in reverse, pulling the skin away from his fingertips for maximum sensory input, and Gavin shivers underneath the cool touch. RK900 experimentally rolls a raised nipple beneath his thumb and Gavin’s hips buck.

“You fuckin’,” he gasps. “You goddamned stupid, tall piece of plastic.” He throws his head back and RK900 latches his mouth onto the exposed skin of Gavin’s neck, feeling the human’s pulse leap beneath the skin.

“Shh,” RK900 soothes, cupping the sides of the Detective’s face. He rubs his thumb over Gavin’s jawline, tilting up his face so he can look into his eyes. He squeezes experimentally and can practically track the path of the breath that leaves Gavin as he exhales heavily.

“Please.”

“Please, what?”

RK900 releases his throat and Gavin gasps, grabbing the android’s hips roughly.

“God, please. I don’t know, just...shit. Fuck.”

“Okay,” RK900 replies easily, rolling his hips slowly into Gavin’s. “We can fuck.”

It is the perfect lightning rod for Gavin’s frenetic energy, RK900 realizes. He can’t believe it took him so long to see it. Gavin was wired to be physical, to never take in half measures. Most of the time it made him into an intolerable, trigger happy menace to society barely contained by his position as a cop, but this...this was the ultimate solution.

It’s how RK900 finds himself without a scrap of clothing on, a state he has not experienced since he was first built, and Gavin much the same, and their cocks are brushing together between them. Gavin has broken out into a sweat, and that, combined with his pre-ejaculate and RK900’s modest dribble of lubrication, provides a slick, smooth glide of their bodies against one another.

Gavin cannot stop swearing. He drags his nails down RK900’s back and grips the back of the android’s thighs with his calves and urges him on faster, and for his credit RK900 is just trying to keep up, going purely on instinct. RK900 bites Gavin’s shoulder, and in retaliation Gavin seizes one of his hands and promptly sticks RK900’s pointer and middle fingers into his mouth, his wet tongue swirling around their tips and down to the place where they meet on his palm.

Between that and the stimulation he is receiving from the firm rubbing of their cocks against one another, RK900 finds himself overcome, the usual warnings of overexertion and heat buildup flashing in his display but strangely muted, dull.

He pulls his fingers from Gavin’s mouth and replaces them with his tongue, and it is with Gavin’s tongue on his and Gavin’s breath in his mouth that he feels the Detective’s cock pulse and cover both their members with ejaculate.

He understands what is happening to him after it’s already begun, and though he does not output the same amount of fluids as his human partner, RK900’s own semi-viscous ejaculate quickly joins Gavin’s, and every single sensory port he has goes deathly quiet all at once.

When he comes to, RK900 finds himself laying half on top of Gavin, and the latter is panting hard, gripping RK900’s upper arms. A quick sweep of Gavin’s vitals with his sensors (back online again, thank goodness for that) shows that the Detective’s heart rate is finally on the decline. There are traces of hormones in his sweat, oxytocin and vasopressin, and a matching heaviness to the lids of his eyes.

He half expects Gavin to say something scathing about the very idea of _cuddling_ , but he is pleasantly surprised when Gavin says nothing and merely bows his head against RK900’s chest, their legs tangling between them.

RK900’s hand lazily traces Gavin’s face, skirting the edges of his cut and the scar on his nose. “Is this all it takes to soothe the beast?” he jokes.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Gavin, but he wears a devilish grin.

“Not that I’m not pleased with the outcome, but I must admit to being surprised.”

“Ha, I surprised an android.” Gavin closes his eyes and breathes in hard through his nose. He offers nothing in the way of explanations, apologies, confessions. RK900 expects nothing less.

\---

Gavin sleeps and RK900 lets him, running his daily diagnostics and allowing himself to slip into his own trance of checkups and feedback. HIs arms are around the Detective; as his heart rate decreased and the sweat and fluids on his skin dried, RK900 perceived that the temperature would become uncomfortably low for Gavin.

It was quite nice, regardless, this skin-on-skin contact, the rhythmic breathing of the warm body beneath him.

He’s not sure what breaks him out of this state until he sees that Gavin’s eyes are open and looking at him. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and RK900 would bet money he does not need that this has been the most amount of hours Gavin has slept consecutively in weeks...months, perhaps.

“I just realized something,” Gavin says. “Do you think maybe our victim got axed because he was helping that android escape? Like, he knew they were going to chop her up for parts and tried to smuggle her out of there?”

RK900 considers this. “It’s highly probable,” he agrees.

Gavin sighs. “What a fuckin’ world, huh?”

\----

RK900 makes his way out of the break room, holding a cup of coffee in his hand as he always does right around this time of day. Gavin may have had a good weekend’s worth of sleep, but old habits die hard.

He passes Connor and Lieutenant Anderson on the way and stops to greet them.

He can pinpoint the very moment Connor figures it out, knows the look in his predecessor’s eyes when his scan has no doubt shown him some very compelling points of interest on RK900’s skin and clothing. But Connor says nothing, only smiles up at him.

When he approaches Detective Reed’s desk, said human tears his eyes away from his terminal and watches RK900 set the coffee down.

“This better be just how I like it,” he grumbles, looking at it dubiously.

RK900 takes his seat across from Gavin’s desk. “It is perfect, as you know full well.”

He feels something beneath the desk: Gavin’s foot brushing against his, the toes of their boots touching.

“Thanks.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> No proofreading, we quickly publish our finished fics like men. 
> 
> I am of the belief that Gavin Reed is not a Good Person but that perhaps, with the right direction, he could maybe get there someday. I am also of the belief that a deviated RK900 is 98% cool cucumber and 2% total dweeb.


End file.
